scattered among the stores. If she had her way, she’d sample barbeque sauces from the food court while her mother and Myrracle haggled over the perfect T-DOD dress.
T-DOD pandemonium assaulted them immediately. Hundreds of mothers and daughters pawed frantically through the mall, their foreheads beaded with sweat, the bags heavy under their eyes and on their arms. These lower floors of the mall near the main entrance consisted of bargain-basement seconds and clearance outlets.
Mrs. De La Crème pulled Myrracle and Tookie up six escalators, past the mid-fashion floors to the top level, straight to the Jurk flagship store, which carried couture frocks designed by Jeremy Jurk, the most lauded clothing artiste in the world. He refused to design any apparel but dresses.
The store was packed to the gills. Everyone spoke at once, their high-pitched voices mixing in the air and sounding like a squawking flock of wild geese. Dresses lay helter-skelter over theracks, on the counters, and on every inch of floor space: Feathered dresses; sequined dresses; tiered, bustled, and ruffled dresses. Dresses with sweetheart necklines, dresses with one shoulder; off-the-shoulder, strapless, and open-backed dresses. Halters. A-line and asymmetrical dresses. Sundresses and cocktail dresses. Prom dresses. Ombres. Metallics. A few girls ran around the department with three dresses on their bodies at the same time, for fear their final pick would get snagged by someone else.
“This is the perfect one!” one girl shrieked, holding a pale lavender frock in her hands.
The girl’s mother pushed a ruched red dress into her hands. “Look, Janeef, I know what’s best for you for The Day of Discovery. I was Miss Metopia twenty-six years ago. Hello! I know fashion.”
Amid all the noise and the tussling, Tookie felt a pang of longing. Normal mothers helping their normal, single-color-eyed daughters. Tookie thirsted for a drink of it.
Mrs. De La Crème and Myrracle pawed through the dresses, clearly on the hunt. Myrracle pulled out a short green fringed frock. “Too flapper,” Mrs. De La Crème deemed, wrinkling her nose. Next, Myrracle held out a crushed-velvet dress with black sequins and a tuxedolike white front with ruby buttons dotted down the center. Mrs. De La Crème shook her head. “Are these dresses for The Day of Discovery or the cabaret?”
“What kind of dress are you looking for?” Tookie ventured, trying to be helpful.
The rack let out an earsplitting screech as Mrs. De La Crème threw a score of hangers to the floor. “Something very specific. I’ll know it when I see it. Myrracle must wear an original and it
must
not clash with the SMIZE.”
“What about p-p-pants?” Tookie suggested. Now,
that
would be original.
“Pants?” Mrs. De La Crème stared at her in horror. “Pants are not majestic.”
Then Mrs. De La Crème’s gaze clapped on something across the store.
“There,”
she said, moving toward a nude-colored strapless gown with tons of tulle.
She pulled it off the rack. Though it had a Jurk label on it, there was another label that said
Vintage
. Tookie knew Mrs. De La Crème would drop it immediately—a vintage dress was as bad as a ripe banana, an object way past its expiration date—but instead she pressed the dress to Myrracle’s body. “Yes, Myrracle, this is it. I can feel it in my gut.”
After Mrs. De La Crème had paid for the dress, they left the Esplanade and exited onto a street teeming with vendors hawking Day of Discovery souvenirs. One cart was dedicated to T-shirts, hats, and a variety of trinkets bearing the WHERE THE HELL IS Ci~L? slogan Tookie had seen on the sidewalks on her walk home.
Tookie paused, staring longingly at the Intoxibella’s face on the cheap T-shirt, beguiled by her hypnotizing matching green eyes. Ci~L was the only Intoxibella in history to grace the cover of
Modelland
magazine twelve times in a row, every month for an entire year. There were six top cosmetics
T-DOD pandemonium assaulted them immediately. Hundreds of mothers and daughters pawed frantically through the mall, their foreheads beaded with sweat, the bags heavy under their eyes and on their arms. These lower floors of the mall near the main entrance consisted of bargain-basement seconds and clearance outlets.
Mrs. De La Crème pulled Myrracle and Tookie up six escalators, past the mid-fashion floors to the top level, straight to the Jurk flagship store, which carried couture frocks designed by Jeremy Jurk, the most lauded clothing artiste in the world. He refused to design any apparel but dresses.
The store was packed to the gills. Everyone spoke at once, their high-pitched voices mixing in the air and sounding like a squawking flock of wild geese. Dresses lay helter-skelter over theracks, on the counters, and on every inch of floor space: Feathered dresses; sequined dresses; tiered, bustled, and ruffled dresses. Dresses with sweetheart necklines, dresses with one shoulder; off-the-shoulder, strapless, and open-backed dresses. Halters. A-line and asymmetrical dresses. Sundresses and cocktail dresses. Prom dresses. Ombres. Metallics. A few girls ran around the department with three dresses on their bodies at the same time, for fear their final pick would get snagged by someone else.
“This is the perfect one!” one girl shrieked, holding a pale lavender frock in her hands.
The girl’s mother pushed a ruched red dress into her hands. “Look, Janeef, I know what’s best for you for The Day of Discovery. I was Miss Metopia twenty-six years ago. Hello! I know fashion.”
Amid all the noise and the tussling, Tookie felt a pang of longing. Normal mothers helping their normal, single-color-eyed daughters. Tookie thirsted for a drink of it.
Mrs. De La Crème and Myrracle pawed through the dresses, clearly on the hunt. Myrracle pulled out a short green fringed frock. “Too flapper,” Mrs. De La Crème deemed, wrinkling her nose. Next, Myrracle held out a crushed-velvet dress with black sequins and a tuxedolike white front with ruby buttons dotted down the center. Mrs. De La Crème shook her head. “Are these dresses for The Day of Discovery or the cabaret?”
“What kind of dress are you looking for?” Tookie ventured, trying to be helpful.
The rack let out an earsplitting screech as Mrs. De La Crème threw a score of hangers to the floor. “Something very specific. I’ll know it when I see it. Myrracle must wear an original and it
must
not clash with the SMIZE.”
“What about p-p-pants?” Tookie suggested. Now,
that
would be original.
“Pants?” Mrs. De La Crème stared at her in horror. “Pants are not majestic.”
Then Mrs. De La Crème’s gaze clapped on something across the store.
“There,”
she said, moving toward a nude-colored strapless gown with tons of tulle.
She pulled it off the rack. Though it had a Jurk label on it, there was another label that said
Vintage
. Tookie knew Mrs. De La Crème would drop it immediately—a vintage dress was as bad as a ripe banana, an object way past its expiration date—but instead she pressed the dress to Myrracle’s body. “Yes, Myrracle, this is it. I can feel it in my gut.”
After Mrs. De La Crème had paid for the dress, they left the Esplanade and exited onto a street teeming with vendors hawking Day of Discovery souvenirs. One cart was dedicated to T-shirts, hats, and a variety of trinkets bearing the WHERE THE HELL IS Ci~L? slogan Tookie had seen on the sidewalks on her walk home.
Tookie paused, staring longingly at the Intoxibella’s face on the cheap T-shirt, beguiled by her hypnotizing matching green eyes. Ci~L was the only Intoxibella in history to grace the cover of
Modelland
magazine twelve times in a row, every month for an entire year. There were six top cosmetics
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